


Castles in the Air

by Shadowcatxx



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst and Tragedy, Bittersweet Ending, Diary/Journal, Dracula Influence/References, Homoeroticism, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22213678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/pseuds/Shadowcatxx
Summary: AU 1897. Boris Bookamooka is a Bulgarian cartographer with a secret; a secret that is exposed when he gets lost in the wilderness of Romania, and is subsequently rescued by the mysterious Lord Vladimir, who has many secrets of his own. This story is an account of their short time together, and what happens when a human-man falls passionately in love with a vampire.
Relationships: Bulgaria/Romania (Hetalia)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 60





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya  
> BASED ON: Dracula – Bram Stoker
> 
> Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names & relationships.
> 
> This story was inspired by several classic novels. At best, it's a poor attempt to mimic the tone, language, and structure of a typical 19th century English gothic novel, and I chose to cast Romania and Bulgaria for purely stereotypical reasons. I've been writing it in fragments for a while, so my apologies if the scenes feel disconnected. I realize that this style isn't for everyone and that's totally okay, but, if nothing else, it was fun to write—in lieu of posting anything else—and I hope you enjoy it! Cheers :)

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

BULGARIA Boris Bookamooka

ROMANIA Vladimir

* * *

“I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air.”  
― Bram Stoker, Dracula

**Boris Bookamooka's Journal**

**Brașov, Transylvania**

**20 AUGUST 1897**

My timepiece strikes midnight and yet I write. It beckons me to sleep from the writing-desk—silver-plated and engraved with my initials, B.B.; a gift from my parents for my twentieth birthday four years ago—but I ignore its scolding tick. I barely hear it at all, for I am utterly consumed by my need to record my recent expedition while the details of it are still fresh in my mind, even if I will never forget the feelings as long as I live.

Live, yes!

My God, I have never felt so alive before, so _awake_!

It is late and the small oil lamp wanes, but I feel compelled to document the past few months as proof of my experience, else I fear I will misremember it as a dream. A wonderful, thrilling dream full of love and passion, the likes I which I am unlikely to ever know again. I write late into a night so much shallower than all of the deep nights I spent alone with him. My lord Vladimir. Even penning his name thrills me now, filling me with emotions and memories and a disparity that bites like my lord's red lips: ferocity and pain succeeded by pleasure of the rawest kind; pleasure beyond any of my prior imaginings. I feel bereft without him now, as though I have lost something important to me, and, indeed, I have, for I left a part of myself in that castle in the mountains; a part of myself that I will never retrieve and do not want back. It pleases me to know that a part of me will live forever with my eternal lord, Vladimir.

My lord, the vampire.


	2. One

**03 MAY 1897**

I took my leave of fair Sofia, endeavouring to graph the interior of the northern country on assignment from my benefactor. I am a cartographer by interest and a surveyor by employment, but truly a romantic at heart. The monetary yields of this three-month venture remained my formal excuse for what I privately celebrated as a tour, not of the continent, like the respectable children of well-to-do aristocracy, for I fit no such category, but rather a tour of fantasy. I have always been enamoured by folktales and superstitions and it has been my experience that the deeper one delves into a country's interior, the deeper, too, dwell its stories.

My father—a pragmatic farmer of cereal crops—suspected the truth, but did not speak of it. He dismissed my infatuation with the unknown in much the same way he dismissed my pursuit of formal learning in university. But I was as determined on that day in May as I had been six years previous stepping beneath the yawning edifice of Sofia University, only a decade old, itself, and thrumming with the excited energy of new, fresh-faced students. I traded the fields for a lectern hall and a library, and I am afraid my father has never forgiven me for wanting to become a learned man of the modern world.

A hypocrisy, of course, for, though I packed in my luggage the tools of science, my mind reeled with medieval pictures and gothic tales. I accepted the assignment on the enchanted whim of a boy, not a man, who quivered at the thought of hiking the forgotten footpaths tread upon for centuries by the nightmarish monsters of legend.

"Boris," said my mother with affectionate reproach, "you have no sense of self-preservation, child. Clever, to be sure—my boy, the university graduate!—but you lack the basic survival instincts that God gave a dog! Promise you will not go looking for trouble in the mountains?"

"I will not," I said.

She held fast to my hands: hers, red, dry, and cracked; mine, ink-stained with bitten nails.

"But—" I added, teasing her with a gamin grin, "—I cannot be held at fault if trouble finds _me_."

"Oh, you are a wicked child, Boris Bookamooka!" she cried, scolding me even as she reached up and wrapped her arms around my neck, crushing me to her bosom, squeezing me as if I was still a boy. "I swear it, I will have your head if you provoke harm unto yourself!"

"Yes, mother." I smiled and kissed her cheek. "I love you, too.

"I will be back in three months!" I called, waving as I leapt adventurously onto the departing train. And then, just to embitter her, I added: "I will be back once I have acquired misadventures of my own!"

* * *

**11 MAY 1897**

The last meal I ate in the company of men was at a lodging house in Brașov, where I had stayed the night before. It was a hot and hardy dish consisting of paprika, maize porridge, and tender eggplant stuffed with forcemeat (I must remember to procure the recipe before I take my leave), after which I had a carriage deliver me into the mountains to begin my work. At the roots of an endless, dense forest I began my arduous journey. I hiked the pathless unknown all day, calculating and charting and sketching the natural landmarks into a crude, preliminary map, and stopping only for a modest dinner at midday. I was enamoured by the sights and sounds and scents of the forest, which seemed like a far foreign colony to me, who had grown-up in the wide open of farmlands and the closeness of cities. Never had I seen—never had I _felt_ —nature like this and I reveled in it. I breathed in the cold, clean mountain air; I smelled the deep earth scents of dirt and roots and foliage; I listened to all of the unseen living things that called this forest home.

It was on the darker side of twilight when I finally stopped to rest. The wind whistled mournfully through the trees and the sky above was crowded with swollen clouds. I do not know how long the storm had been brewing for without my notice, distracted as I was by my task, lost in my exuberant exercise, but it came upon me fast and I could ignore it no longer. A deluge crashed upon the mountainside, in one moment soaking and disorienting me. I searched for cover, but found none. The ancient forest, which had embraced me before, rejected me now: biting and stinging and tearing at my clothes and skin, and betraying my footing so that I fell down a rocky slope. I cried out, for all the good it did, for I was alone here.

Would the proprietor of The Golden Krone Hotel notice my absence? Would he send a search party for me if I did not return, or assume that I had found shelter elsewhere?

I had read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of an imaginative whirlpool. Perhaps it was that expectation that accounted for my reaction to what happened next.

A hand on my wet face. I did not recognize the chill of the fingers for the coldness of my own skin, but what I did feel was the soft smoothness of a hand that had never known toil. A noble, then. A woman, most likely.

I peeled back my eyelids and whined at the effort.

"Be still," said the stranger, a young man in a large hood. The wind tore at it, obscuring his face.

My sense of direction fled. "I do not know..." I managed to say. My tongue felt heavy, my words sluggish, my lips chattering.

"You have stumbled into my territory," he said.

Only later would I recall his word-choice: _territory_ instead of _property_ or _lands._

"The storm has robbed you of your sense. They are a commonplace occurrence of this season and come upon the world without warning. If you were a local you would know that, so you must be a traveller; though, I cannot think of what purpose brought you here."

"I-I-I—I am a cart-o-grapher," I shivered. "I-I-I—I come from a firm in Sofia."

"A traveller, indeed. That explains your voice.

"Come, master scholar," he said, standing swiftly and extending his hand. "Let's away before the rains come again. You are cold and weary."

I clasped his hand and he pulled me to my feet with unexpected strength—unexpected, because, as I stood, I realized that I was the taller and broader of us, which speaks more to his fragility than it does to my musculature. I am tall, indeed, and there is a solidness to my frame made of big bones, but I would never describe myself as a large man. I have known many large men, all of them farmers, and all of them much taller and broader and simply bigger in all respects than I. Then again—my classmates in university had liked to tease me with my upbringing, calling me "farm-boy strong". I thought it a joke spoken with affection, as young boys have always and will always express their love for one another through mockery. But now that I think back on it, I _was_ quite a lot stronger than they, all of whom had grown-up in the capital, studying and playing gentlemen's sports, and not helping to sow and till and harvest crops, or wrestle livestock into pens and harnesses, or lift bales of hay. Perhaps, unbeknownst to myself—who wanted nothing more than to write and record and explore—I _had_ become "farm-boy strong". But I certainly did not feel it, now.

I clung to the stranger's slender hand as though my very life depended on it, curling my frame toward him in helplessness. I felt that my legs would collapse beneath me, so stiff were they with cold. I felt brittle and moved slowly, as if moving too fast may cause my bones to break.

"Where are you leading me?" I asked, with more weariness than trepidation.

"To my home," he replied, his voice unburdened; no puffing exhaustion or gasping effort; no inflection at all. "You will be safe there," he promised, "from the storm."

I held fast to him, following his tread in agreement. I was cold and soaked and tired and hungry, though I did not feel the latter under the circumstances. I wanted nothing more than to sit down somewhere warm and dry.

"I am Boris," I said, tilting sideways when my gait slipped. "Boris Bookamooka of Sofia," I added, because I did not think he would know the small country village of my birth.

He caught my balance and wrapped his arm securely around my middle, and surprised me by saying: "I do not know _Sofia_. It is in the land of the Ottomans?"

"Oh, um, no—I mean, yes, it _was_ ," I said, further surprised by his ignorance, "but the principality of Bulgaria has been an autonomous state for over twenty years."

"Has it?" he asked, expecting no reply. His tone was polite, but dismissive, as if he did not care about foreign affairs. I had met many alike him in school.

"Yes, indeed," I pressed, proud of my country's accomplishments. "Bulgaria is as strong and stable as any of her neighbours, Prince Ferdinand has made it so," I said, because to say otherwise would be unpatriotic, and the fetal nation of my origin needed all the support she could get. In truth it had been a tumultuous couple of decades in which I grew-up. "Bulgaria has gained great respect for her defeat of Serbia's attempted invasion and continues to deny the great power of Russia. How many nations can boast of that?" I bragged.

The stranger's reply was tolerant and gently mocking. "Indeed," he parroted me, still uninterested.

I would have further argued my point—I had been taught to argue well in the capital—but it was there that he stopped.

"Welcome, now," he said with courteous grandeur, a sly curl to his words, "to my home, Boris Bookamooka."

I expected a cottage, or a hermit's hovel, but I saw no such thing.

It was a castle. A looming medieval fortress upon the jagged rocks and yielding trees of the mountainside. A structure that had weathered the test of time proudly, if not unscathed by it. It looked abandoned, cold and pitiless, and forgotten by the outside world. It looked wicked even against the dark sky and crags of barren rock, but it was no less a refuge from the storm.

I looked from the castle to the stranger, my guide, my rescuer, and gasped, for he had pulled down his hood to finally reveal his face. And what a face it was! A being of ageless, inhuman beauty stared back at me through eyes as red as blood.

" _What are you_?" I whispered, bewildered, beguiled.

"I am Vladimir, lord of these lands," he smiled, pressing up on my chin to close my slack-jawed mouth, "and I am what you would call: a vampire."


	3. Two

**11 MAY 1897, Cont.**

Are you going to kill me?" I asked, watching my host carefully.

He decanted an aromatic wine, long aged, into a metal goblet embossed with an imperial monogram, and offered it to me. I wanted to accept it, but my hands were clenched in my lap, numb with the uncertainty of my future. My host, Lord Vladimir—the vampire—set the goblet down on the narrow table between us, where the last of my dinner rations sat. The table's surface, polished to shining obsidian, reflected the flames of a merrily crackling fire, which was warm and yellow and familiar. Fire is the great equalizer, for no matter how imperial or impoverished the hearth that contains it, fire is fire, the purest of all the elements. The warmth of the chamber lulled me into a sense of security, despite the potential threat staring back at me through eyes as red as the reddest coals. He pinched his lips, and said:

"You are my guest, Mr. Bookamooka. I will not hurt you unless you attempt to hurt me, you have my word."

"I promise that I will not hurt you," I said after only a brief moment of reflection. In truth, I do not think that I could have harmed him even if I tried, but, to my surprise, he seemed earnestly relieved by my oath.

My bare toes curled into the wool rug at my feet. It was one of half-a-dozen intricately woven rugs of eastern origin, as valuable as the large, colourful tapestries that covered the stone walls. Tall, golden candelabras lent smaller, softer pockets of light; and the furniture was heavy and intricately carved. The bed—for this was a bedchamber, not a reception or salon—was large, with four towering posters hung with a canopy of fine, embroidered silk. Together, the room was medieval in character, everything about it heavy and dense and enduring, but it was undeniably made for the resident's comfort. There was no window, I did not fail to notice.

My host had shed off his long cloak and faced me now in a graceful state of undress, covered but not layered; ruffled and pearl-studded, but not bedecked. He was a stark whiteness in a chamber of warm colour.

I looked a shivering, disreputable vagrant in only my shirtsleeves, with no shoes or stockings or waistcoat or hat. No fit company for a gentleman, let alone a lord, but he did not rebuff me.

"You are hungry," he said, indicating the food and drink without gesture, inviting me to partake.

Gingerly, I cupped the goblet in my hands. It was warm and the spiced wine tickled my appetite. I took a sip and let slip a sigh of pleasure at the taste and texture.

My host smiled wistfully.

"That one has been waiting for a long time to be drank," he said. "Tell me, what does it taste like?"

"Do you—I mean, would you like to taste it for yourself?" I asked, sheepishly offering the goblet.

"Yes," he replied, smiling sadder still, "but I cannot. I have too delicate a pallet," he added, giving emphasis to the lament. "But I miss the taste of real food and drink. At least, I think I do. I really cannot remember."

"Forgive me," I ventured, "but you do not look old at all."

A flattered, if patronizing smile and a shallow incline of his head. "Why thank-you, Mr. Bookamooka."

I blushed, thought to explain my impolite curiosity, then decided better of it and stayed silent.

My host drew closer.

"Do I not frighten you?" he asked, matching my curiosity.

The more he spoke, the more I noted and appreciated the faint hiss in his aristocratic voice. It was alluringly serpentine, like the slow, erotic uncoiling of a bejewelled creature. Slant, feline eyes, glinting now like Burmese rubies, regarded me with an infatuated bemusement that made my heart beat ever faster, staring at me from a face like virgin canvas: all careful lines of perfect, aquiline beauty, untouched by colour. His long hair shone in the firelight, imbued with the flames' brightness and little else.

He was a stunning thing, but a starving one. He looked like an improbably beautiful corpse.

"Are _you_ hungry?" I asked, with more suspicion than intended.

"Parched," he admitted.

I looked guiltily down at my meager meal, paired with a priceless spiced wine.

He chuckled.

"Please, eat," he urged, every bit the gracious host as he retreated into the shadows. "It serves neither of us if you go hungry, as well."

I was pleased to eat, if a little disquieted by his presence. I did not think I was afraid of him, for he had done nothing to merit my fear. Indeed, he had rescued me from the storm. But I felt nervous of him—of myself, perhaps. I could not still my racing heartbeat and I felt the chamber's heat acutely. My palms were sweaty. I felt lumbering and clumsy opposite Lord Vladimir, who cut a trim, elegant silhouette against the fire's light.

"You are staring at me, Mr. Bookamooka," he said after a time. His voice was quiet, coy, and his head tilted. The dancing firelight chased the shadows across his face.

"Oh, apologises, my lord," I said bashfully, forgetting myself. "It's just..."

I hesitated, then chanced a peek up at him. He regarded me with curiosity. I replaced the goblet, emptied now, and swallowed my cowardice with the last of the wine. I had never been brave enough to speak candidly of my feelings—my uncommon _desires_ —but something about his interest emboldened me, and, whatever he thought of my inclination, I did not think that he would despise me for it, so I risked the truth.

Earnestly, I said: "I think you must be the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my life, my lord. You are captivating."

My compliment provoked a modest smile from him. "More beautiful than all your lovely ladies in Sofia?" he asked through a film of long, lowered eyelashes. "You are a very strong and handsome young man, Mr. Bookamooka. Clever, too. And charming. You must be quite popular amongst the girls, all vying for your favour—?"

My stomach tightened, but I could not look away from him. He was utterly alluring, effortlessly more lovely than anyone, man or woman, I had ever seen.

"Girls tend to prefer men who pay them attention, I think."

"And you do not?" he pried, leaving his place in the dark and moving cautiously toward me; cautious for both of our sakes, I think.

"I have been a student for many years, now. I am a scholar," I said meekly, losing my nerve at his approach.

It is what always happened on the rare occasion that I found someone like me. I would muster the courage to smile or give some other communicative encouragement, but if he reciprocated; if my intended showed any signs of responding in kind, then I fled, afraid of my folly and ashamed of myself. I often used my profession as an excuse for my marital status and my disinterest in the softer sex. I would tell inquirers (gossips): "I do not have time for flirting." But the moment I said it to Lord Vladimir, my heart leapt into my throat. He was so near to me now, having circled the table's barrier between us, and I found that I could not lie when he could so clearly see the truth.

"Is that the only reason?" he asked, giving me leave to confirm or deny his suspicion.

It was a gentle question, but shamelessly direct, and he read the reply plain as day on my face. Slowly, he slid his hand across the table and rested it mere inches from my own.

"You never answered my question, Mr. Bookamooka," he said lower, huskier. He looked down at me with a predator's sly hunger. "Do I frighten you?"

My answer was very slow to come, but he was patient. I pursed my lips, ruminating on the beguiling creature in front of me, looking at me as if at something delicious in every sense of the word. I could not help but feel seduced by him, and by this place, and even by the storm raging outside. I felt vitalized by it all.

"A little," I admitted honestly. "I fear that I know what you are capable of, my lord. I feel lost in this place."

"But—?" he guessed, reading my hesitance. His soft lips relaxed, losing their predatory curl as he eased his fingers over mine, never taking his eyes off of me.

"But I am in no hurry to leave you," I blurted.

I felt the blood rush to my face in embarrassment, but, strangely, not shame. It felt good to speak the words aloud, and better yet when his smile grew bigger, touching his ruby eyes. I may have felt uncertainty and even fear—a delicious fear—but I was not ashamed of the desire I felt for him. Not here, not locked away in this secret place. How could I be? How could anyone be ashamed to want such a superior creature as he?

He reached out and cupped my cheek, pressing his cold palm flat to my hot face. He breathed in deeply. And sighed.

I felt calmed, assured by his tender touch, and leant into his hand like a dog, even as I asked: "How long has it been since you fed?"

"Since I fed?" His voice was a sweetened hiss; a little strained, but soft. "A month, at least. But there is such a big difference between feeding and feasting, my dear scholar, and I have not feasted in a very long time."

" _Feast on me_ ," I whispered.

His pupils dilated and he swallowed. For a moment he looked likely to deny my offer, but then he said: "Are you certain?"

There was a note of urgency—desperation, even—in his voice, and greed in his eyes, large and reflective now, like a nocturnal beast. A predator once more.

But I was no longer afraid, for I felt like a predator myself. I hungered for my lord and wanted to please him, and repay him, and utterly lose myself _in_ him or _to_ him—I cared not which. I just wanted to be with him.

I entwined my fingers with his and squeezed them as I stood up abruptly, but he did not flinch. I shrank the distance between us, peering down at him now, our chests inches from connecting. His left hand fell to take mine, clasping both tightly, and he pulled me forward. He walked us to the waiting bed, me following like a dog on a tether.

No—not a dog. _You lack the basic survival instincts that God gave a dog_ , my mother said. But I did not care.

In that moment, I would have walked with him into the fires of hell.

"Come with me," said the vampire, opening his arms in invitation, "and we will feast on each other tonight."

I took him into my embrace, and I kissed him, and whispered:

" _Yes_ , _my lord._ "

* * *

I feared that I was afflicted with some strange malady, and do so still, because that night—it could not have been real! It was a dream, too good for the likes of me; altogether too good to be true. And yet I know it _was_ true, because I can feel him on me still.

The vampire's skin was as cold as marble, smooth and unblemished and yielding beneath my groping hands, and impossibly, evenly white. His slender body looked like milk poured over the dark bedding, a fine-boned specimen with the softness and virginal deception of a Caravaggio angel. I had draped my long limbs overtop him, betraying the stark lines of a fading brown tan, the only lasting memento I had of a scholarly pursuit in the Bosporus. I felt slow and hulking as I pressed myself down upon him, the most uncoordinated I had ever been. I felt bumbling compared to the elegant creature beneath me: my knees and elbows too bulbous, my rough skin—patched and scared and uneven—stretched over a big ribcage and wide shoulders that still clung to the rangy musculature of youth, rather than filling into the bowed muscles of adult masculinity. My body was flush with arousal and perspiring, leaving streaks of sweat and mess on the vampire. My raven hair had slipped from its tie and fell in clumps, framing my cheeks, sticking to my face. It curled in a wet, unsightly way over my lord's fair face as I bent to him. I took him in my hands, and—Oh God, spare me! My hands: wide and long-fingered and much too large and callused for a scholar, and my bitten fingernails stained permanently black with ink.

I redirected my aim and braced my weight onto the bedding on either side of him, too mortified to touch him with such naive, crude _human_ hands.

Then, a soft chuckle in my ear.

I lifted my eyes to Lord Vladimir's face and saw there a twinkle of amusement in his hungry, lust-heavy gaze.

"Are you afraid to touch me?" he teased, even as he looped his arms around my neck, resting his forearms on my shoulders. He tugged the tie free from my hair and it fell forward in a black curtain. His weight was light upon my shoulders, like the hollow bones of a songbird, and he felt wonderfully cool against my heat.

"Do not be," he continued, leaning into my lips for a kiss. It was firm, but chaste. "Do not be shy about it, if it is what you want. If _I_ am what you want. It gives you joy and pleasure to touch me, does it not? Then do so, my dear. I would see you happy," he urged, dragging his hands down over my biceps, down my arms. He took my hands in his and placed them low on his prostrate body, my fingers pressed into the curve of his hips and wrapping around the soft swell of his backside. I held the shape of him in my hands and felt my pulse quicken and my member stiffen ever more in erect eagerness. "You cannot hurt or defile me," he said. "So, take me now as you want me, my dear. Tonight, I am yours and you are mine."

He kissed me again, and this time I parted his lips with my tongue. I took him into the wet heat of my mouth and sucked, gasped, groaned, even as my clumsy hands touched him, stroked him, indulged in him. I spread his legs and pressed myself to him in unencumbered want.

" _Tonight_ ," he whispered, his lips pressed low and sultry to my ear, " _we feast together_."

He lowered his mouth to the column of my neck in the parody of a lover's kiss. He parted his lips and sucked me there. He scraped my skin with his elongated incisors.

I felt a wonderful shiver of anticipation, and then plunged into him at the moment his teeth pierced into me.

I cannot put into words the feelings I felt—and would not if I could, for it was too intimate an experience, too precious a memory. The night we shared together was not the melodramatic passion of some tawdry novel, but rather a relief for us both; a sating of our long-denied desires and indulgence in each other. We took from each other like two starving things, wrapped around each other's bodies, and loved each other for the mutual wantonness we both craved.

I cannot recall the details of our coupling. Only that I felt things I never had before. I know I yelled. I know I felt pain and pleasure together and indistinguishable from one another. I know I felt a deep, enthralled affection for him. A liberating recklessness for myself. And love.

Later, I awoke with my cheek resting on his chest—his unbeating heart—still atop him, still inside of him. His thighs were pressed to my sides and his fingers were teasing my unruly hair.

His hair shone with a bright luster now, and his skin glowed from an internal iridescence. I lifted my head in awe of him, so dazed and weak, and still thinking myself asleep. He smiled at me tenderly in the dying glow of the embers, an indication of just how much time had passed. It became clear to me then that the vampire I had met only hours before had been no more than a pale, emaciated shadow of what he truly was. As coldly beautiful as he had been, now—Dear God, _now_! I felt a flood of pure admiration for the bright, youthful being that now laid beneath me. He was changed and yet unchanged in the most spectacular way, still himself, still hauntingly seraphim, but more now. Oh, _so much more_.

"I am sorry, my dear," said Lord Vladimir kindly. "I fear that I have taken too much from you. It's only... you are _very_ delicious."

And he blushed, actually _blushed_! because he could do so now with my blood circulating within him.

I began to protest—"no, I feel fine"—but failed to lift my head from his chest; failed to pull my body from his. I saw my reflection in a brass heat-shield and realized, with some horror, that _I_ now looked the corpse.

Lord Vladimir eased my concern—for me, for him—by passing a hand across my face and brushing back a stray lock of hair. "Rest now," he advised, holding me comfortably. "You are quite weakened and need to recover your strength."

I relaxed against him. "I feel emptied," I said, uncouth in my grogginess. I wrapped my arms around him as I would a pillow. "But... in a good way. A very good way.

"But—" a thought struck me, "—are _you_ okay, my lord? Did I hurt you?"

I could not bear the thought, but he merely chuckled.

"No, of course not," he reassured me, petting my head. "You cannot hurt me, I promise. Did it feel good for you?"

" _Yes_ ," I said, breathier than intended. "It felt wonderful. Does that... make me a necrophiliac?" I accidentally asked.

Combined blood-loss and exhaustion had stolen my wits.

"You know, I believe it does.

"Oh, my dear!" He laughed, his voice like bells, and kissed my temple. "Do not fret, my sweet human-child. I do not have a pulse, but I am no dead thing, I assure you."

I tensed a little, but not for his admission of being undead. "Please," I said, pushing myself with effort onto my elbows, "do not call me that."

His hands stilled upon me and he tipped his shining red-gold head. "Call you what?" he asked, perplexed.

I swallowed, feeling petty for my churlish lack of self-confidence. I may be clean-shaven and hawkish, but I do not look like a child.

I repeated the word distastefully: " _Child_. I am not a child, my lord. I am four-and-twenty."

His full lips curled, and I could tell that he was biting back another teasing smile; another laugh, perhaps. He tried quite hard to hide it, but failed. I could hear the quiver of amusement in his voice, and a thread of nostalgia, too.

"Four-and-twenty, yes, indeed," he indulged me in a shallow apology. "Of course you are a man. Forgive me, my dear.

"But," he continued, his head cocked, his spider-long eyelashes gleaming like gold, "I, too, have a request for you. I must ask you not to call me by my title. My name is Vladimir, and it would please me very much to hear you say it. It has been so long since I heard my given-name."

I smiled, happy to comply. "Vladimir," I said slowly, emphasizing each letter, letting the syllables roll off my tongue.

His answering smile was apple-red and warm and puckered, and I leant forward and kissed it, helpless to its provocation.

" _My Vladimir_ ," I repeated with love.

I closed my eyes.

Then opened them to find myself swaying atop him, my head swimming dizzily. My body felt heavy and my arms trembled, unable to hold my weight. I caught myself before falling upon him and crookedly lowered myself to the bed.

"I am... tired," I understated, my eyes falling closed once more. "I think... I would like to sleep a little, now."

"Sleep then," he permitted, and I felt him lie down beside me and pull a blanket over us both. Then he kissed the tip of my nose.

I smiled, half-asleep.

"Sleep sweetly, my Boris. You are safe here with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fan-art for this chapter has been created by the lovely and talented unevenstar. Be sure to visit the link, if you're interested: https://www.instagram.com/unevenstar/
> 
> Thank-you so much (again) for this beautiful art! I absolutely love it! xD


	4. Three

**12 MAY 1897**

I awoke alone, Vladimir having vacated the bed and bedchamber entirely. If not for the queer circumstance of my waking in such an equally strange and solid place, I would have thought it a dream. If not for the grim pallor of my skin and the soft, pink punctures on my neck, I would have thought myself rescued by a reclusive hermit and not a vampire at all.

I shivered, dressed, and shivered again, noting that the coals in the hearth had gone cold. My memory of the previous night was foggy at best and fractured at worst, but I recalled the expression of the vampire as he carefully lit the fires for my benefit. I had mistaken his posture for stiff nobility, but in afterthought I realized it was nervousness. The candles had been dusty and firewood sparse in the chamber, the coal scuttle nearly empty, indicating that nothing had been lit in some while, and would not have been last night if not for my need. Remembering the way he had shied from the delightful warmth and chasing light, preferring my body-heat to the flames, I felt certain of his fear. Could it be that vampires were, indeed, flammable? If so, then his fear was well justified and I resolved to take precautions in future to light all manner of flames myself, thus sparing him the danger and discomfort.

Furthermore—and I am now ashamed to admit this, but must record it in the interest of a true account—the knowledge of his weakness relieved me. Even though Vladimir did not threaten my person in the night, and, indeed, guarded my sleep as he promised, he was a predator of mankind, a creature who had supped on my blood and would do so again if I allowed it; perhaps even if I did not. He had not yet harmed me, but, knowing not his mind or intent, I had no notion of what he would be like now that he was restored to his health. I could not quell the creeping sensation that I had become his willing prisoner, and a convenient food cache at that.

Feeling disquieted, I left the bedchamber. It was ice cold in the castle. A witching power seemed to hold sway over it, making it a favourable place for a nightmare's gamble.

The absence of windows did not escape my notice. The castle's labyrinthine corridors were long and dark in the way of subterranean caverns, lit only by sparing torches—for my benefit—tucked deeply into alcoves. I advanced cautiously, taking small, blind steps and holding my hands at the ready for an unexpected encounter, but my eyes had adjusted reasonably well to the rationed light, even if my body was not yet resigned to the rationed heat. A wiser man would have retreated to the light and warmth and safety of the bedchamber and waited for his host to return, but my fear and discomfort was suspended at present; my survival instincts dwarfed by my insatiable curiosity.

" _Curiosity_ ," scolded my mother's ghost, " _is what killed the old cat in the attic_ , _and it will kill you too_ , _foolish child_! _Just look at yourself_!"

It was then that I saw my reflection. I looked slovenly in my state of undress and suddenly blushed at the risk of Vladimir finding me. Needless, really. He had seen me at my most carnal baseness the night before; yet, still I felt embarrassed by my foolish pride for thinking myself the equal of a noble.

I had been accused in school of possessing an underbred pride. It had been said as an insult, served with a sneering smile by a bragging acquaintance, and it had made me feel everything but proud. I had not believed it then. I had been angered by it, seeing it as a challenge to my intelligence. But I could see the truth in it now.

I could see it in the way I stood: in the erectness of my posture, in the green of my eyes. For who did I think I was, a mere farmer's son, strutting these lofty halls like a lord of the castle? Who did I think I was compared to beings such as Lord Vladimir? It had once been my father's dearest hope that I inherit his farm and continue it, but I did not, thinking myself worth more than my birthplace and upbringing; thinking that I could _become_ more with the tools of my cleverness and ambition. And knowing that, was I not proud? Was I not prone to exceeding arrogance, thinking myself better than I ought to be? Or rather, thinking that my scholarly pursuits were more admirable than the toils of my father? My mother often chirped that I was— _am_ —a "wicked child", but always in jest; always in a fit of worry for my safety, or with affectionate reproach. But perhaps there was— _is_ —some honesty in her words. I was many things, and still am, as most men are, but meek and humble and content were not listed amongst my virtues. I do not even hesitate to blaspheme, because: oh, my God! I had been hungry for as long as I could remember! Hungry for things I was not suppose to want. I had always wanted more knowledge, more influence, more wealth, more of the world, more of my own sex.

To think such impure things shamed me from day-to-day outside of these walls, but here—here, somehow, I disregarded it. Here in the castle, the shame felt muted. I felt safe from the regimented outside and was not afraid to explore myself deeper. Here, I let myself think on my dreams and desires and felt a strange sense of calm and—yes, indeed— _pride_ come over me. Because on the inside, this is who I was—who I _am_ —and, despite everything, I liked him. I had never and would never want to adhere to conformity. I wanted to know more, see more, do more, achieve more, and I wanted it all with a man in my arms.

My heart wanted for me to hold Vladimir in my arms. If only I could find him, now.

"Boris?" said Vladimir, finding me instead.

He smiled at me as he swept across the flagstone, a jolly bounce in the roll of his feet unlike the night before. He looked well, his beautiful, bright face emerging from the darkness as if from a pool of black water.

"Apologies, my—Vladimir," I chuckled, forgetting our deal, "I did not mean to interrupt your slumber."

"My slumber?" His voice was peppered with lighthearted perplexity as he shrank the distance between us. "You thought me sleeping _down_ _here_?"

His bemusement surprised and further embarrassed me. I picked at my wrinkled shirtsleeve, pushed to my elbow. "Oh," I said awkwardly, "you were not?"

Vladimir laughed, his voice echoing in the stonewalled emptiness, but it was not unpleasant. His tolling filled the space like holiday bells. "Of course not!" he smiled, delighted by my mistake. "I have a perfectly good bed upstairs with you in it, my dear. Why on earth would I sleep _down here_?"

"Well, to escape the daylight, I suppose," I guessed, forgetting my recent observation. But Vladimir was keen to remind me of it:

"There are no windows in this castle, my dearest, so rest assured," he chided playfully, "I am quite protected and much more comfortable in my bedchamber than in this dank underground.

"But you are kind to worry for me," he added, placating me.

"Forgive me," I said, "I thought—well, perhaps it is foolish, but I have been led to believe that you—vampires, that is—sleep in coffins."

He laughed again and put his arms around my neck, drawing us together. "How utterly morbid," he smiled.

"You do not, then?" I asked, cupping his hips in my hands. "Are you not nocturnal and fallible to sunlight?"

"I _am_ nocturnal, and the sunlight _does_ do me harm," he admitted, "but I sleep in a bed like a civilized being, not like some dead thing in hiding. I am _not_ dead, Boris, as I have said, and I see no reason why I should have to sleep like the dead in the ground. I am _un_ dead, I really cannot stress that enough."

"Forgive me, my lord."

" _Vladimir_ ," he corrected. "And there is nothing to forgive.

"This," he said, when we were once again ensconced in the bedchamber, "is where I prefer to sleep."

He sat upon the dishevelled bedding and bid me to join him. I perched on the edge while he sat cross-legged, like a child. He laced our fingers together as he spoke, taking an intimate interest in the lines and calluses of mine. It was as if we were about to play a clapping game.

"I died in this bed," he said after a pause, "which is why I sleep here."

"You mean to say, this is where you were changed from the living to the undead?"

"No," he said, studying my ink-black cuticles. "It is exactly as I said: this is where I _died_. In this bed, my sire drained me of my mortal blood and then, just before I passed beyond the living world, fed me of his own. That is how a vampire is created. He took my corpse down into the crypts and that is where I awoke—the place you thought that I slumbered. It is why I dislike it. I must return there each night, but I do not like to linger. It is too morbid and brings back unpleasant memories of my distant life, and sometimes I recollect what I felt upon waking that first time as the newborn undead: that I was entirely alone."

I squeezed his hands, trying to convey comfort, but his word-choice confused me. "Your _sire_?" I asked. "He is your father?"

Vladimir's eyes softened thoughtfully. "He was like my father, in a way.

"Yes," he nodded with conviction. "He was more of a father to me than my mortal father ever was.

"My mortal father had four sons, of whom I was the youngest," he began. "He was a wicked, selfish man, who sacrificed me—his most detested child—to the vampire without regret, thinking only of saving himself and the sons he thought worthy of their inheritance. I was the fourth, the smallest and weakest, and the reason my mother died. I do not know what my father would have bargained if any of his other sons were at risk, but because it was I he did not hesitate. He traded me to the vampire in exchange for his life and the lives of my older brothers. I suppose he thought it was a good bargain, a paperless contract that would buy his own safety. I expect that he assumed me dead, and that the vampire would kill me—feed on me and then discard me. But instead he adopted me. He did feed on me, but he kept me afterward, and when I was old enough to inherit his legacy—for he was very old and tired of life—he gave me the gift of his immortality, and then quietly let himself die.

"I believe my mortal father would turn in his grave now, if he knew what became of me, his despised child. I have lived scores longer than he, in wealth and comfort and security.

"The thought makes me glad," he smiled spitefully.

"Why do you think he adopted you?" I asked. "The vampire, I mean. Why not just feed on you?"

Vladimir nibbled his lip for a moment, and I swallowed.

"I think he was lonely, and that is why he spared my life, at least at the start. And I think... I understand it," he confessed. "I remember little of my mortal life, but I know it was not happy. The vampire saved me from it.

"There is a memory I have, which I cannot forget and would give anything to do so. I suspect the repetition of the abuse is what ingrained it in my mind, that not even my dying could erase it, because I can still recall it vividly:

"When I was a child," he said, "I had lovely hair—"

"You still do," I interrupted, gently coiling a long lock around my finger.

Vladimir smiled, but the memory made it melancholy. "My mortal father would threaten me often. _Pray I never grab hold of those pretty locks_ , _or I'll pull them even longer_! he would say, and did so. He pulled me by my hair like a dog by a leash. Then one day a vendor at the summer fair offered my father a trade for my hair, and, before I could protest or escape, I had been seized by my brothers and held while my father sheared my hair like a sheep, clean to my scalp. He was rough and I cried, fearing he would pull it out by the roots. The vendor asked if he could buy me from my father, but my father denied him, seeing in me a renewable source of income as long as my hair continued to grow. I was eight-years-old, and for the next six years my father harvested my hair like a crop every spring to sell at the fair, unconcerned by my shivering in the winter months. I learnt to wear a hood for warmth and to hide my shame from gossips, and I thought myself the very unluckiest child in the world. I learnt to prognosticate winter illnesses for myself, and, indeed, I fell ill often with evil colds, and nearly died of influenza once. But my father and brothers did not care. They would divide my hair into equal portions and tie each with bows of twine and sell it at market, like any other thread. I once saw a woman in the village wearing a bracelet of red-gold and knew it to be my own braided hair; she, wearing it as an adornment the way I never could.

"It is the reason I still wear it long now," he proclaimed, tilting his head; a lock fell over his shoulder, shining.

"An act of defiance?" I grinned.

He nodded, a twinkle in his eyes. "Something like that, yes.

"Come," he said, standing suddenly. He pulled me by the hand into a dressing-room, where a large portrait hung.

He reached for a candle, but I intercepted his hand and took it for myself. He looked relieved.

"This is you?" I asked, seeing the portrait come to light.

It was a stupid question, because the likeness of the child was undeniably my lord's. Just as I had never seen a more beautiful man, never had I seen a more perfect child. He was an angel encapsulated in oil-paint; skin like light, hair like fire, eyes like the bluest jewels of the earth. _He once had blue eyes_ , I thought, and then looked sideways at my companion's deep garnet hues. A vampiric condition, then. I returned my captivated gaze to the portrait, admiring the child's long mane of red-gold hair, soft curls spilling over his shoulders nearly to his waist, like a woman's. If Vladimir had not told me his story, I would have looked upon his past-self and seen a pampered child. But now, knowing of his sorrows, I could see the length as a rebellion in spite of a childhood bereft of such a human privilege as owning one's own hair.

"It _is_ you," I repeated with confidence.

Vladimir smiled nostalgically. "Yes, it is. My sire had it commissioned not long after he formally adopted me, hoping to preserve this image of myself for me, so that I would never forget what I once was.

"You laugh at me," he noted in amusement, "because you will never live long enough to forget such a thing as your own childhood, but it is a very real danger for me."

"You were a beautiful child," I complimented, looking again to the portrait. "How old were you?"

"I was fourteen in this portrait," he said, then tapped the gilded frame.

I followed the appendage and saw the artist's signature and the date, and was surprised, for only then, seeing those numbers etched in history, did the truth of his immortality really strike me.

1463

My breath caught in my chest, because I was standing beside a man—an _immortal_ man—who was over four-hundred-years-old! And he was just as lovely and youthful now as he had been then.

The true reality of his eternity hit me, and in that moment I loved and appreciated him all the more.

* * *

We fell together on his bed and I made love to him on the Sabbath in a direct defiance of God. It thrilled me, and I felt as an addict, knowing that nothing—no threat of earthly punishment, no damnation of my immortal soul—could ever convince me to abstain and repent of my sins. Vladimir was not a sin; he was my salvation, my redemption, and I told him of my love for him. I whispered it in infallible sincerity to the darkness, which protected us both. I repeated it as I loved him, then as I fell quietly beside him in exhaustion, and said it once more in a drowsy undertone, the way men speak to each other in the dark.

I drifted in-and-out of myself, and saw the clock, and noted that it was not yet evenfall, though I could have sworn it was later. But time was stagnant in this secluded place and had no purpose for me, nor I for it.

During that time, I was in possession of a deep and ever growing happiness. I was pleased by Vladimir, who looked down upon me. In my delirious state, I worried that the ivory reed of his neck was too delicate to withhold the lustrous weight atop it. I might have spoken it aloud, for he laughed and kissed me. And then I was pulling him to me again, for curiosity is a restless and unscrupulous impatience, and my ravenous curiosity to know my lord—again and again! every last inch of him!—controlled me.

"I want you to drink from me," I said, holding him close.

He smiled with his teeth, and replied: "You are spoiling me, my dear."

"It is entirely selfish," I said, my tone joking, my words sincere. "I like to see you flush with life, my vampiric lord. Besides, I am a hardy Bulgarian farm-boy with blood to spare."

" _Hmm_ ," he purred, lifting my hand to kiss the knuckles, "not a farm-boy, a man. That explains these strong, handsome hands."

I raised a finger to those smooth, bloodless lips, cold as glass. I wanted to see them apple-red again and kiss their warm plumpness, swelling as if from a bee string with my own life-blood. I would give it willingly, if only for the reward of those tender lips pressed to mine.

"You are a kind man," said Vladimir, bowing his head. I felt his nose brush my throat. "A generous man," he continued, kissing my neck. " _My man_ ," he whispered, and sunk in his teeth.


	5. Four

**26 MAY 1897**

The days passed without my notice and I passed them in a pleasant, sleepy stupor, like an addict lost in an opium fog. Vladimir and I talked and slept and feasted on each other, some days never leaving the comfort of bed. I was slothful and greedy and prideful, but did not care. There were times, in the small hours of mourning, when I could not tell the difference between dreaming and waking. I existed somewhere in the middle, in a purgatory of my own making, of my own ebullient joy, and I loved it. Vladimir brought me food, and I ate it. He brought firewood, and I burned it. He gave me tours of the forest and castle, the two of us walking through the long corridors with our hands clasped, fitting a parodied description of a couple taking a turn about their cold, stone garden. He shared books with me with printed publishing dates far in the past, and he told me oral tales of the world he had known. I told him of the modern world and delighted in his disbelief. We debated often like schoolmates, played games like old friends, and coupled together like rutting beasts. We bathed together, and dressed together—when we bothered to dress at all, for my pretense to modesty had died a swift death. We walked and talked and made love beneath the black vault of starry skies.

I do not think I would have survived if not for Vladimir. If not for his care, his urging, I would not have risen from his bed. I would have simply stayed there and starved, slipping as easily into death as into a heavy sleep, a smile upon my face.

Sometimes we spoke, and sometimes we acted, and sometimes we lay quietly side-by-side, but not touching.

Sometimes we were strangers even to ourselves, and it was gloriously liberating.

"No one sees himself truly," Vladimir whispered in my ear, "because everyone stands too close. But I see you, my dearest. I see you and feel you and would know all of you—your body, your mind. Your precious heart and soul."

"And I you," I agreed, kissing him passionately until words fell away.

* * *

**02 JUNE 1897**

Vladimir caught me talking to myself in the looking-glass.

I was berating my reflection for the uncomely image it showed, for I looked wan and grey. The cost of feeding a vampire on my own blood. I was finding myself less strong each time he drank from me, and I took longer to recover day-by-day. But my fear was a small thing, and all religious reproach turned to ridicule in my head. I would no sooner deny him then intentionally starve myself.

I was made aware of his presence by a purring chuckle, for he had no reflection in the looking-glass. I turned, red to my bones with embarrassment.

"I have exceptionally good hearing, like a bat," he teased, playfully nipping my ear. Then he rested his head upon my shoulder and faced the glass, as if imagining what our portrait would look like together. I wondered what it must be like for him, not knowing his own face. A shame: a crime! for his beauty was a work of art. His fourteen-year-old self hung preserved forever in oil-paint, but the face preserved forever in flesh was one he could not remember.

I melted into the intimacy of his embrace, knowing full well that I would be as much use as a chocolate fire-guard if danger were to strike.

"Can you change shape?" I asked. "To become a bat, or a wolf, or some other nocturnal creature?"

I wondered if I had, again, placed my faith in unfounded superstition, but was relieved to hear him affirm my theory.

"Yes, I can," he admitted, "but I am not taken with transmogrification. It is a terrible bother, and it hurts," he bemoaned, leaning against me.

"It hurts?"

"Yes, of course." He nuzzled my shoulder. "How do you think it feels to break down and re-grow your bones in a different form, and all in the span of a single moment; to twist and condense yourself into a much smaller shape? I suppose I once enjoyed it, running and flying and climbing with claws instead of fingers, but now it makes me ache."

My lips twitched, curling upward. "You... are a vampire with arthritis?"

Vladimir lifted his head. "Are you laughing at me?"

"Oh no, my dear," I teased, kissing his forehead and then his sulking lips, "I would never."

It had not taken long for me to understand that Vladimir was of a very playful disposition, reminding me of the feline mousers who slept in my father's outbuildings, and I took great delight in teasing him. I had not expected to find such a youthful, frivolous humour in one so old, and had to keep reminding myself of his age once I had learnt it, for he did not look like a mature man, nor did he act like one. If I knew not the truth, I would have mistaken him for a beardless youth younger than I. An educated, well-bred aristocrat, for certain; a youth with wisdom beyond his years, but a giggling, gambling mortal prone to flaws like any other.

My favourite game was to goad his pouting temper by emphasizing his undead qualities, which he pretended to lament, but which were as much a part of him as his loving, unbeating heart.

"My hair does not grow," he explained, petting mine in example. "Nor do my fingernails, or eyelashes, and my skin does not peel or wrinkle or stretch. It does not change in any way except to become boated and flushed with blood. I cannot gain or lose weight, nor muscle. I cannot grow or shrink or lose what I have. I am what I was when I died, and shall always be."

"Preserved," I said, letting his fingertips roam across my human features, which changed from day-to-day.

" _Yes_ ," he said in a seductive cadence, rubbing my unshaved jaw.

I promptly took him to bed.

* * *

I feel selfish," I later confessed.

We were lying in bed: I, naked, and Vladimir wearing red lace that looked more confectionary than garment. I wondered if he knew how he looked, how sensual he was. I wondered how he could with no reflection to consult, and yet I did not for a moment doubt his sly, playful tactics. He would have made a bad gambler, for he could not hide his expressions, or seductive plots. I decided he knew exactly what he presented to me, stretched out languidly across the bed, dressed like something pornographic, and what the mere sight of him did to me. It made me wonder, so I asked:

"You can't feel pleasure, can you?"

I hoped that he would not make me go into the details of our coupling, despite the physical proof of my own enthusiasm.

"I can," he mused slowly, "just not in the same way you can. I can feel affection, and I can feel your warmth. I can feel that you're happy," he said, smiling in lazy contentment. "That's enough for me."

"But do you enjoy it," I asked self-consciously, "when we're together?"

Instead of answering, he walked his fingers across my torso. "You know," he purred, "a man of your abilities should not doubt himself."

He tipped his head up, body pressed against me, and nipped my earlobe, then followed the mock-scold with a forgiving kiss to my jaw, my neck. He lingered on my neck.

"But—" I began, but he silenced me with a finger to my lips.

"Yes," he answered plainly, crawling atop me to straddle my waist. His hollow weight pressed down, drawing us together by gravity, and a cascade of lace tickled my thighs. He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me, and he said:

"I like being with you very much.

"In fact, I should like to be with you again..."


	6. Five

**16 JUNE 1897**

Tell me of your family," Vladimir said as we walked the moonlit forest, his hand tucked into the curve of my arm.

I gladly complied with stories of my childhood, making a vignette of my rural upbringing, which made him laugh. It was not unlike his in geography, only in contemporary context. And it was not as upsetting for me to recount it with so many years of distance between myself and that hopeful, unschooled boy I had once been.

"I would often hear my mother remark to my father upon my personal improvement, and feel very proud for it," I said, "though, her words were always received—considered, perhaps—but never answered by my father. He was never prone to conversation, like I.

"From the ages of ten to fourteen I was in training for heroism," I joked. "I read all adventure works available to me in order to supply my memory with quotations for my own expeditions, then I would concededly recite them in the vicinity of anyone with ears to listen. My fellow farm-hands would always suspiciously disappear whenever we had free time to talk, and it took me an embarrassingly long time to understand why.

"My mother scorned these works for all the ungentlemanly words they taught her impressionable son, which exchanged ignorance for a kind of innocent curiosity in me, I suppose."

An innocence I lost soon after.

My passions evolved with the help of a round-cheeked cousin of my neighbour's, whom, if not beautiful, then was very near to it, and with whom I had spent my fifteenth summer, yielding the last of my innocence. It was the first and last time I had ever been brave enough to speak plainly of my desires, without metaphors or the cover of darkness to protect me; no night time gambles or poisonous drink to blame for misunderstandings. That sweet smiling boy had been the first and last whom I had ever confessed my feelings to—until Vladimir, of course. But I did not tell Vladimir that. My evolution from childhood ignorance to adult awareness is not something that I will ever share with anyone. It is too intimate a part of what makes me whole. No one else needs to know how I came to be what I am, and no one else needs to accept me for it. No one, except for myself.

There are some secrets that we keep even from ourselves; and other secrets we know, but lock securely in our hearts, not because we fear their existence, but because they are not truths or untruths, but feelings without words. Some secrets simply cannot be explained and that is what makes them so precious.

"Boris," Vladimir said, for I had fallen into silence.

I smiled to reassure him, and gave his hand a light squeeze. I was grateful for his presence, and more grateful for his discretion, that he did not pry into my feelings. I would have tried and failed to confess them to him if he had only asked, but he did not, and I was glad. He never asked for more than I offered, just as I never asked more of him. We accepted what the other gave, and appreciated it all the more for the trust shared between us. Vladimir seemed to instinctively know my heart, but, rather than speak of our harmony, he showed it in action.

He leant closer to my body, hugging my arm, and matching my pace, conveying the simple feeling of: _Here_. _I am here_.

I resumed my narrative with confidence:

"My mother's reprimands were forever winded on a sigh of concealed affection for me. She worried, as her station as matron requires, but she never boxed me sternly, only cuffed my head in reproach when I did something wrong. And I did many things wrong in my youth. Many things to merit a proper beating, but I was always saved and spoiled by my mother's love.

"My father," I continued after a pause, thinking of how best to describe our feeble relationship, "pretended not to hear when I spoke of anything _unsuitable_. He pretended not to hear me more often than not, I think. We spoke very little to each other, and never of anything personal. I sometimes wonder if he wished for another child more alike himself, but nor do I think he dislikes me. He is disappointed in me, but resigned to the fact that I am his only son and so he must love me or love no one. Not that he's ever said the word _love_ out-loud, not even to my mother. He is a quiet man. It is my mother who taught me to talk about anything and everything, and to never leave a silence unfilled."

"Then she taught you well, indeed," Vladimir teased. "I've never heard anyone talk for so long about rocks."

"It is the science of the earth, itself, which is called _geology_ ," I corrected, but he quickly covered my mouth.

"No, please—!" he feigned distress. "I cannot listen to your rock-talk again!"

"Oh, but it is so fascinating!" I pressed, grinning in malicious delight while chasing him in a circle. "There are igneous rocks, and sedimentary rocks—"

"Stop it! Oh, stop it, you wicked scientist-man!" Vladimir laughed. He kissed my mouth to silence me, and I could not fault his tactic, nor his skill. "I do not care for rocks unless they sparkle."

"A most popular opinion," I assured him.

He took my arm again and we continued our walk in the moonlight, making a circuit of the castle like ladies of leisure make circuits of drawing-rooms. This time, I spoke of my time in university. I told him of my professors and the classes I took. I told him of my classmates and the trouble we got into. I told him how I filled in for a member of the rowing team once and was subsequently begged to join. " _I wonder why_?" Vladimir purred, laying his head against my bicep. I told him of the public-house I frequented, where one friend played the piano, and another friend cheated at billiards. I told him of the old man I bought bread from every morning, and how I spent so many late-nights in the university's library that I was eventually entrusted with a key.

"I can see that you are very beloved," Vladimir concluded. "Such a clever, helpful, and handsome young man, how could you not be?"

I shrugged, a little embarrassed.

"No more or less than any other man who isn't a scoundrel," I said.

"Affirmation was always very nice when given to me, but I learnt early never to depend on it," I explained. "I have always been satisfied with my lot of public attention. I am lucky to be of a likeable disposition, otherwise I fear my betters would have encouraged my reputation as a reprobate. I am neither praised nor ignored in a crowd, and I am happy to accept as many invitations as I decline.

"But you must understand it, my love—?"

I smiled down at Vladimir, thinking that he must have been much more beloved than I in his life. But he surprised me—reminded me—with a shake of his head.

"No, I do not. I was always despised," he replied, and then turned away so that I could not gauge the depth of his sorrow.

Another silence settled between us, and I berated myself for forgetting his unhappy experience, which was so much worse than mine. I realized then that I felt guilty for it—for having had a relatively secure and happy childhood, with friends and relations tolerant of my afflictions, if not accepting of them; and a reputation good enough to rescue me from my many misadventures. I did not have to hide my truths for self-preservation until late in my youth, and by then I was capable of defending myself. I could not imagine what Vladimir had suffered: to first be despised for your fragile mortality, and then to be endangered because of your immortality. Had no one ever appreciated him simply for himself? Perhaps the vampire had, his sire. Perhaps he—

I stopped myself, for I did not want to explore the relationship between sire and fledgling. Vladimir had only been a child when he was taken—adopted—by the vampire, but they had lived together in isolation for six years. It was enough time for Vladimir to mature to adulthood, becoming the beautiful man I now knew and loved. Had Vladimir's sire once loved him the same? A part of me really hoped he had, for Vladimir's sake. But a bigger part of me hoped he had not.

"Your sire—?" I asked, trying to withhold my jealous feelings. "He couldn't have despised you."

"I do not remember what he felt for me," Vladimir replied, oblivious. "It was so long ago, and we had so little time together. He liked my gentleness, I think. I remember the first time he took me hunting. I was seventeen and yet I cried. He should have scolded me. He had already overindulged my sensibilities by leaving my education so late, but instead of anger I remember forgiveness, maybe even fondness. It was such a very long time ago," he repeated tiredly.

"My mortal father did not like to see me gentle though, and that I _do_ remember," he added scornfully. "I was never the son he wanted, which was the one thing we ever had in common, because I never wanted him for a father."

"My father does not like to see me gentle either," I shared, cautious of upsetting him. "But he is not a violent man and only ever struck me when deserved. He has always been an uncomplaining man, who believes in precisely three things: farming, religion, and private business, in precisely that order. I believe he is confident in himself and satisfied with his lot, but he's never been proud. _Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves_ , he used to say, and would glare chastising at me if ever he saw the stirrings of pride in me."

Vladimir stopped, pulling gently on my forearm. I was afraid that I had failed in my purpose and had hurt or offended him, but he faced me directly.

"I like your pride, Boris."

Had he dismissed my words, or lied and flattered me with a denial, as expected, I think I would have been disappointed in him and myself. But, instead, his honest compliment of my very worst vice made me want to kiss him.

So, I did.


	7. Six

**25 JUNE 1897**

I awoke at midnight to find Vladimir dressed handsomely in foregone finery, holding his bejeweled hands out to me with a mischievous smile on his face. He would not let me dress in my own sober clothes—the three-piece suit of a respectable working-class man, which I had arrived in—which were threadbare from frequent wear. Instead, he fastened me into the layered, ruffled costume of a bygone age, brightly coloured and delicately adorned and stiff as fibreboard. It was his turn to laugh as I turned from side-to-side, wriggling and scratching and failing to lift my arms up higher than my shoulders.

"I look like a courtesan!" I complained. "I can barely move in this ensemble, and you expect me to _dance_?"

Vladimir's laughter was enchanting and infectious as he led me by the hand into the grand ballroom, where a hauntingly beautiful melody was humming through long, brass pipes. The pungent instrument looked like an ancestor of the modern steam-organ, a monolith of shining metal and vibrating cords installed into the north-facing wall of the commodious ballroom. Immediately, I wanted to know how the instrument played, eager for the chance to dissect it, but Vladimir denied the request, gently chastising me as he positioned my hands upon his person.

"I did not bring you here for a scientific endeavour," he chided, cupping my cheek to attract my attention. He turned my head and squeezed my cheeks. "I brought you here to dance with me."

"I do not know how," I admitted, aware of the rush of blood to my face. Vladimir's eyes dilated in reply, but the only thing he said was:

"I will teach you."

Before I could protest, we were moving together—dancing, I presumed. I felt foppish and foolish as my steps fell heavily, clumsily, and I held fast to Vladimir for balance. "Relax, my dearest," he said, but I could not. I was tense and graceless in my attempt. In that moment my feet betrayed me, for they had always been sure and sound beneath me when I walked, or hiked, or boxed, but when I needed them to impress my beloved, I failed utterly. I trod on him, and, looking quickly up from my feet, I smashed my forehead against his.

"I am useless at this!" I burst in mortified apology, quickly removing myself from his embrace. "I am sorry."

"I am not," he said, smiling sweetly.

_Sweet_ is not a word with which I had ever thought to describe the vampire, for sweetness is the territory of women and children, not night predators, but in that moment it fit him perfectly. His look was disarming, his feelings laid bare in the heavy-lidded eyes, dark and sparkling, and the curl of his lips.

"I love you like this, Boris," he confessed. " _Human_ ," he emphasized, "and vulnerable, and fallible, and raw as ore."

"I do not know what you mean," I replied, at a loss.

"Then we are on very unequal terms," he said, reaching for me, "for I understand you perfectly. Now come."

A wicked glee seized him as he took my hands, and, instead of the structured dance demanded by the music's tempo, he began to swing us both around in wild circles, using his weight as a counterbalance to mine. It was reckless, dangerous even. His movements were erratic, no longer the mathematical steps of convention. I did not realize my preference for it until I remembered a small boy: the memory of myself as an eight-year-old, spinning with reckless abandon as a gaggle of country musicians played a reel. That boy was shrieking with laughter, and smiling the same way Vladimir was now. His luminous face filled my vision as my feet rolled beneath me, finding easy purchase in the familiarity of chaotic movement. His hair whirled in a curtain of curls, the candlelight catching the gleam of polished buttons and spider-webbing of lace cuffs. Instinctively, I dropped one hand to his waist, the other clasped in his hand, and then I was the lead, guiding my lord in the half-remembered dances of my childhood. I began to smile without immediately noticing, feeling it upon my face and in the flutter of my heart. Without warning, I lifted Vladimir into my arms and began to spin us together, drowning in the combined peals of our laughter.

I do not know how long we spent in the ballroom, playing like children, but by daybreak I was flushed and breathless, and Vladimir had lost both of his shoes. We fell into bed together, too exhausted—on my part—to do more than kiss and bid each other sweet dreams.

* * *

**JULY 1897**

If I may be so bold as to speak for my lord: our affection for one another only grew throughout the intercourse of each day, until I could say with confidence that he was the very dearest person I had ever known in my life. I never wanted for joy or love in his company, and, on his part, he never held my fragile mortality in contempt.

I loved him. I loved him earnestly with every beat of my mortal heart.

I felt him in my mind and in my soul, as if he was a part of my very being.

It may be true that there is nothing that people are so deceived in as their own affections, but I did not care. I was certain of my love for the vampire, and hoped he was equally as fond of me. Though, I knew also that it would not matter if he was not. I loved him—was enthralled by him—and would have begged to stay by his side if ever separation threatened us, for I did not believe I could live without him.

He fueled me with life as much as my life-blood fueled him, and, as long as we were together, I knew I would never want for anything else.

I spoke to him of my family and friends, even as I forgot their faces, their scents, the sounds of their voices. I spoke of my village and the beauty of a country sunrise, even as it was eclipsed by the moon in my mind. I forgot that I was ever worried by the sight of blood. I forgot the feeling of fullness; what my body felt like when it was not in some way numbed. I forgot what strength was as my body wasted, my energy ebbed. I learnt to navigate the dark as well as any nocturnal animal, until I could no longer look directly into a flame without it hurting my sensitive eyes. I ate less day-by-day, and I slept for longer. Some nights, I did not wake at all. Sometimes, several days would pass without my knowledge.

But I kept all of this conjecture to myself, because I did not want to worry Vladimir; or—worse—give him any reason to send me away.

He would not— _could_ not, I told myself, for he loved me as much as I loved him.

He trusted me, as I trusted him.

He needed me, as I now desperately needed him.


	8. Seven

**1897**

Tell me of your work," Vladimir asked, the entire contents of my satchel spread out before him on the floor. "Why do you use such strange tools?"

I did not know, then, that this would be the beginning of our end together. I might not have answered if I did.

Instead, I answered readily:

"I use these tools to map the world."

"Why?" he pressed, turning metal instruments over in his hands. I smiled down at him from my perch, lying on my stomach at the edge of the bed. I wanted to reach out and touch him.

I _always_ wanted to be touching him.

"Because it must be done, of course."

"Does it?" he challenged. His red eyes captured me. "Knowledge is the murder of mystery, you know. And mystery is the romance of the world."

"It is always better to know than to not know."

Vladimir put down the tools and rose to his knees in front of me. "Would you know me, my dear scholar?" he whispered against my lips.

"I _have_ known you," I teased, stealing a kiss. He laughed; _such a beautiful sound_.

"But would you know all of my mysteries," he purred, forcing me back into a sitting position as he crawled seductively onto the bed. "Or, would you leave me a mystery unknown? Will you learn all of my secrets and then lose interest in me? Will you leave for better puzzles again and again until the whole world has been solved?"

He was in front of me now, his legs folded under him and his hands resting on my thighs. He leant in toward me.

I slid a hand through his hair, cupping the side of his head, and said: "I fear I will never lose interest in you."

"Why do you fear it?"

I froze at his words, and for a moment I did not know why. Then my heart began to pound and, suddenly, I did know—of course I did. How could I not, for it was my single greatest fear. But I did not want to voice it. I did not want to give it substance. And I did not want Vladimir to know. I tried to keep it a secret, but as I gazed helplessly into his ruby eyes, I knew that I was a man caught in a lie. Something between us compelled me to speak, the words falling out of my mouth before I could reconsider:

"I fear it, because I do not think you will let me stay here forever," I said in regret. "Even if I asked it of you."

Vladimir's golden eyelashes fell against his cheeks, closing his eyes. He angled his head into my touch, and, gently, confirmed my fear:

"No, I will not. But you would not like to stay, Boris."

"I would—"

"You belong in the world," he interrupted, softly but sternly. "I do not.

"I would not like you to resent me for this isolation," he said, opening his eyes and shifting his weight. "I do not want you to regret lost opportunities, or your aging mortality, because I will not make you the undead, Boris. I will not take your life and shackle you here. My mind is quite unchangeable in that, you know it is. You doubt the gravity of eternity because it is inconceivable to you, but you would not like it here with me, I promise."

"Vladimir—"

"Let us be grateful for this time together and never forget and never resent. Let this be our castle in the air, my dear, where we may enjoy each other, and love each other, and remember it all as a wonderful dream."

"If this is a dream," I told him honestly, trying desperately to convey my deepest emotions, "then I do not want to wake up."

"I know," he said, taking my hand. He rubbed his fingertips over mine. "But you must go, Boris. Dreams are sweet only because of their fragility, just as your mortality is. Only things that end are truly precious."

"I will end someday and you will not," I translated his words.

"I _will_ end," he said, "but it will be my choice to do so. That is the difference between you and I, the only true difference. But," he added, seeing my sorrow, "even if my end is far in the future, I will never forget you, my precious, imperfect mortal man. I do love you too, Boris. And I do understand your fear, but you must also understand mine."

"Yours—?"

Vladimir's look was vulnerable as he pressed my hand to his cheek, as though he would cry if only he could.

"My greatest fear," he confessed, never taking his eyes off of mine, "is that my love will kill you if you stay."

* * *

**1897**

The days and nights rolled over as ever, but time felt fast and fleeting now, like it hadn't since our first night together.

"Boris, you are dying here," Vladimir said in sorrowful regret. "You must leave me before you can no longer do so."

"You want me to go?"

"I want you to _live_. I want you to fulfill your dreams, see the world, fall in love."

"I _am_ in love—"

He pressed his cold hand to my mouth, silencing me. He would not tell me he loved me again, no matter how much I yearned to hear it.

The torchlight reflected in his ruby eyes, revealing his great age to me in the briefest glimmer. In them, I saw the wisdom of centuries, as well as the sadness.

"I do not want to see the world without you. I am afraid of it now," I admitted, pulling down his wrist. I took his hand and squeezed it. "Come with me," I begged.

"I cannot. I am bound to this place."

"But you don't have to be. We can take your coffin and the dirt of your grave and smuggle it all into the hold of a ship and sail away together. We don't have to be apart. There are ways, I will find them—"

"Oh, Boris," he said in pity, "listen to yourself."

"But—"

" _Please_ ," he whispered, pressing his forehead to mine, "don't tempt me. I belong here and you do not. You must accept that. Do not marginalize my feelings for you. Do not make light of my request and think it is not painful for me to see you go. Had I a beating heart in my chest it would be aching now, and I am selfishly glad I do not, else the pain of letting you go would cripple me. But to stay here is your death, my mortal man, and I cannot watch that. I will not. So, you must go, for both of our sakes."

" _Vladimir_ , _I love you_."

"You will love again."

"I will not."

"Yes," he chuckled softly, sadly, "you will, for you were not born to be alone in this world, Boris Bookamooka. You will find a love to span your own lifetime, not mine, and you will be happier for it. Find someone with whom you can live and love with no regrets."

I took his face in my hands and kissed him deeply, his tongue like silk upon my lips. "I will never regret you," I vowed, kissing him again.

"Boris, you have given me something truly precious to cherish for all the days of my future."

"I love you."

"I know, my dearest. And that is why you must leave."

* * *

I knew why he warned me to leave the castle, for his thirst was becoming more and more difficult to assuage. He took greedily from me, and, by this time, he needed much to satisfy his need. Even as I glutted myself each night on him, so too did my human body quench the thirst of a vampire. Every time he fed on my lifeblood I wanted him more, and, for my sake, he tried to want me less, but his intentions were futile. He was a hungry predator and I was his willing prey, and I was slowly but certainly dying because of it.

My mother often said that it is an unhappy party when pride and stupidity join in company. I heard her wise advice in my mind that night. I knew it was true, and I knew that I had become _proud stupidity_ incarnate, willing to sacrifice my life for my lord's pleasure, but I did not care. Try as I might, I could not bring myself to care, too addicted to the drug that was Vladimir's love.

Perhaps it was luck, or fate, or divine intervention then, that we were soon after found and attacked.


	9. Eight

**1897**

The hunter came during the day, while Vladimir and I slept. He entered the castle without our notice, and crept to the bedchamber with the soft, padded footsteps of a practiced prowler. I do not know what he must have thought, seeing us entwined together in bed, the shape of our prostrate bodies visible beneath the silk sheets. Perhaps he thought that the vampire had seduced me—that I was a victim—or that Vladimir had hunted me as he was hunting us now. Whatever the case, I was awoke by a sudden jolt to my shoulder, the hunter prying us apart so that he could pierce the vampire's heart with a wooden stake.

" _Vladimir_!" I cried.

Enraged, I threw myself upon the hunter in defense of my love. I fought for his life, disregarding my own as I boxed the intruder with my strong farm-boy hands. I fought like an animal, barely aware of my own actions or voice. Instinctively, I wanted to prove to my lord—and myself—that I could protect him; that he need not send me away; that we could survive together. I wanted to defend him with the reckless passion of a fabled knight, a childhood fantasy come true. I wanted to defeat my lord's enemy to prove my undying devotion to him, but I could not.

My body was not strong, but weak and fatigued. Instead of valour, I flailed in an ugly, desperate way against the hunter's resistance. He was a wall of solid, sinewy muscle and he forced me back with a single mighty fist to the face, the studs of his knuckles crashing into my cheekbone. I fell back onto the mattress, my face throbbing in pain, my head spinning as a dizzy haze blackened my vision. I blinked and tried to rise, but my strength was too fragile to hold my own naked weight. Vladimir had fed on me the night before and I was not yet replenished of my blood. I was not well enough now to save him. I had not been well for a long time.

" _Vladimir_ ," I gasped, blinking spots from my vision.

I could not endure the thought of my lord being beaten with those studded fists. I _would_ not endure the sight of him lying dead on the floor.

I cried and I screamed, but when my vision finally cleared it was not Vladimir who was suffering.

My voice dropped away as I watched in awe, as deeply rooted as I was shaken by the scene of carnage and the vampire's face painted in blood. The hunter's body lay crooked before him, as a doe beneath the weight of a wolf. I watched with love and pride and horrified fascination as the vampire sunk his teeth into the large, pulsing vein in the hunter's neck, and I listened as the man's voice drowned on a useless prayer. I watched in relief as my love drained the man of his blood, watching in satisfaction as the life left his frightened, human eyes.

I watched and waited as the vampire drank, captivated by the scene, until, suddenly, an unwanted epiphany came upon me, swift and stinging:

Vladimir did not need me to protect him, for there was more hunter in him than in all the men of the living world. He had been hunting and surviving for centuries and knew, better than any, the greedy hearts of mortal men. I had served as no more than a fleeting, unnecessary distraction in the struggle, in our whole time together, and it had proved nothing but how ill-equipped and undeserving I was to stay at the eternal hunter's side. In the end, I had fallen because of my pride. In the end, the vampire did not—would not— _could_ not—need me.

I could only hope, therefore, that he still wanted me.

" _You_ ," I said, struggling to lift my head, " _you are amazing_ , _my love_."

I tried so hard to smile.

Vladimir turned to me. He looked terrified.

" _Oh_ , _Boris_ ," he sobbed.

Then darkness overtook me.

* * *

 _Vladimir_?"

"Yes, Boris. I am here."

" _Vlad—_ I—I cannot—see you."

"Then close your eyes, my dearest. Everything will be alright soon, I promise. Just close your eyes and rest."

* * *

Vladimir, where are you taking me?"

"To the village, to safety."

"No, please—I do not want to leave you. Please, my lord, no—"

* * *

Vladimir," I said, coming back to myself, "please, put me down."

Perhaps he sensed my lucidity, because he granted my request. He placed me gently down on the ground of the forest, choosing a soft, dry carpet of grass. It was dark, of course, but my eyes were adjusted to such rationed light. But I felt lightheaded; felt my body sway even as I tried to sit upright. Vladimir knelt behind me and wrapped his cold, strong arms around me and held me snug against his chest to keep me stable. It was comforting. The forest was cool and quiet, except for the running stream nearby, which Vladimir could not cross. It is why he was taking the long way around to the village, but I did not begrudge the extended journey. I might have believed this to be one of our regular outings—me, feeling silly and satisfied from our lovemaking and his feeding—if only I did not remember the hunter's bloodless corpse and the vampire's red, red lips. But I did remember, vividly, and so I knew this was no mere night walk.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked. My voice quivered; fatigued or grieved, I did not know.

He rested his soft head upon my shoulder, burying his face in my neck, and holding me tighter.

"Because," he said, so quietly I barely heard, "you are dying. I am killing you."

"I love you—"

"And I love you," he cried without tears, "which is why I am taking you back."

* * *

It was late when we entered The Golden Krone Hotel.

I could not walk, so Vladimir carried me, as he had carried me across the whole mountain. At the backdoor, he placed me gingerly on my feet so that I could stumble over the threshold to let him in, for a vampire cannot enter a place without an invitation from someone inside. He crossed silently into the hotel and opened his arms to me. I fell against him and he lifted me again with the ease of immortal strength, carrying me upstairs to the room I had rented all those weeks ago. I feared that the proprietor might have nullified my contract when I did not return that first day—when I had been proclaimed lost in the wilderness—but he had not. The boarding-room had been paid for in-full, and a purchased room with no guest to wait on was very likely his dream come true. 

The room was unoccupied when we entered, and my luggage was precisely where I had left it. Vladimir laid me down on a bed that made me immediately miss the luxury of his castle, and covered me with a quilt he found in the wardrobe.

"You are safe now," he whispered, kneeling bedside me. He stroked my head, brushing back my black locks. "Safe now from me."

I struggled to lift my head off the pillow and ultimately failed to do so. " _Kiss me_ ," I begged.

He did, gently.

It was unlike the kisses we had shared and stolen before. It did not convey want or need or playfulness, nor was it in gratitude, or sorrow, or a silent confession of love. This time, Vladimir's kiss simply said: _Goodbye_.

I am glad he did not say it in words.

" _Don't leave me_ ," I whispered one last time. I took his hand and squeezed it with all of the feeble strength I had left, as if I could keep him with me by force of will.

"I will stay," he promised softly, "until you fall asleep."

Despite my will, it did not take long. My body was broken, my heart most of all, and I fell fast asleep without knowing it. One moment, I was staring into his face, into those sweet, beautiful red eyes; the next, I was waking up in a room flooded with sunlight.

_I will never forget you_ , _my Boris_. The vampire had leant down and kissed my cheek. Had I only dreamt it, or was I remembering his final farewell?

I cried shamelessly, soaking the pillow. I cried until someone heard me and came to investigate, gasping in surprise when he saw me.

" _Call for a doctor_!" he yelled in panic.

It was the last thing I heard for a fortnight.


	10. Epilogue

**20 AUGUST 1897**

A part of me still feels as insubstantial as a ghost as I sit in this room, writing into a shallow, unquiet night.

Time matters here. I am resentfully aware of it as I refill the lamp for the second time since beginning this account. Soon, the housekeeper will knock to deliver my breakfast—I have refused to take meals in front of anyone—and my laundry. Soon, the proprietor will settle my bill and I will give him the last of my money. Soon, the coach will arrive and the driver will wait impatiently for me to porter my luggage down the stairs. Soon, a train whistle will blow and its engine will heat, belching black coal smoke into a bright blue sky, and the wheels will turn, taking me back to my once beloved Sofia. Soon, I will be delivered into the arms of my awaiting, worried parents.

Soon, but not yet. 

It is dark still. The moon has not yet set on my fantasy.

Most people are forced to play a role in life for which they have no qualifications, and I used to count myself among them. A house, a wife, a family—I have no interest in any of these things, and yet I know they will be expected of me when I return home. I used to fear the inevitability of it all, which is why I ran away into the Carpathians in the first place; why I accepted an expedition so far removed from society. I was a university graduate with a secure job in a respectable firm, with many opportunities for promotion; a young, well-liked and not unattractive man with many prospects of marriage; a man of a modest fortune, but a good reputation and respectable family. And yet, I had ran off into the mountains as if my life depended on it, and only now do I realize it had. If I had not gotten lost, met my lord, fallen in love, and nearly died, I would have followed the path of monogamy and monotony and it would have killed me. Slowly and subtly strangled by time, or from a quick drop and sudden stop by my own hands. Either way, I would be dead just the same.

If I could have stayed with my Vladimir forever, I would have, for there was never a retreat from the world so promising as that castle in the air. My tormented heart still yearns for him and will always do so, but it yearns now for freedom as well. Freedom that I will chase, or die trying.

I will return to Bulgaria, for I had vanished from human ken for three months and then reappeared without warning, so I owed an explanation to my employer, my parents, but I will not stay with them long. I will take the next expedition available to me, no matter the distance or danger. I will travel by locomotive or by steamship or balloon if I have to. I will discover the secrets of the world. I will smile at beautiful boys and be kind to them and whisper sweet words into their lips in the dark. I will be true to myself, because life is too short for regrets. And always I will love the vampire who taught me these things, who saved my life in more ways than I could ever have known.

My Vladimir. My love.

And now, upon completion of this secret account, I shall burn it to protect myself, my lord, and any unsuspecting successor to my experience. Perhaps, someday, such accounts as mine will be welcome in society, but it is not this day. I may never live to see the day when men like me need not hide, but in the meantime I will live.

Yes, live.

* * *

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)


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